


Lemon Meringue

by Samayla



Series: Lemon Meringue AU [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Baking, Fix it AU, Fluff, M/M, Shire AU, The One Ring is Bad News, but Thorin is a doting husband, lemon meringue au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2019-10-27 22:48:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17775683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samayla/pseuds/Samayla
Summary: In which a recipe goes awry, but Thorin manages to conjure a little sunshine for his husband anyway.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This series started in response to a couple of writing prompts on Tumblr. One was for a rainy day in the Shire, and another was for a lemon dessert. Both were for Bagginshield, so I mashed them together, and a whole series was born! Hope you guys enjoy!

Thorin’s hobbit was depressed.

He pondered the issue while he looped wire to make a whisk for Azalea Proudfoot. The rain beating on the awning of his little blacksmith shop faded to a dull background thrum while he worked. Around and around the wire went, and so too did his thoughts, always coming back to the same, worrisome fact. His hobbit was depressed.

One loop. He wasn’t writing anymore.

Another loop. He seemed to have lost his sweet tooth entirely.

Another loop. His green thumb was likewise missing.

Another loop. It had been weeks since they’d had company at Bag End.

“I’d recognize the set of that brow anywhere.”

Startled, Thorin looked up to see Everard Bolger at his counter, shaking rain off his oilskin cloak.

“Marital troubles, I’d wager. What’d you do?”

“Nothing,” Thorin growled at once. No one could say he hadn’t been trying.

Bolger chuckled. “Son, take it from me. I’ve been married near sixty years now, and it’s almost never ‘nothing.’” The elderly hobbit flopped his soggy cloak over the edge of the counter and shuffled around the end.

“You’ll get burrs in your toe hair,” Thorin warned. Once Bolger got settled in, there would be no hope of avoiding one of his infamous lectures.

“Never you mind my toe hair, lad,” Bolger snapped, rapping his walking stick against Thorin’s work table and then perching himself on the edge of a barrel of wire clippings. “Now, tell me what’s happened.”

Thorin hooked a fresh length of wire through the tops of his loops and twisted it to make the base of a handle and buy himself time to think. At last, he asked, “Do you remember last spring?”

Bolger’s impatient scowl melted away at once. “He’s not ill again, is he?”

“No,” Thorin hastened to assure him. He took up another length of wire to wind around the handle. “On our journey, there was an… incident. We were taken prisoner. Bilbo singlehandedly saved our entire company, but he nearly died in the aftermath.” Thorin cleared his throat. He’d nearly died again last spring. It made him panicky just to think of it. “Pneumonia,” he managed after a moment.

“And now he’s susceptible,” Bolger supplied.

“Exactly.”

“And you’re worried about this run of weather we’ve had lately.”

Around and around Thorin wrapped the wire, coiling it into a neat, sturdy handle for the whisk. He didn’t answer the hobbit. It hadn’t been a question.

Bolger nodded to himself after a minute, and his tone turned sharp once more. “And you’ve told him he has to stay indoors for his health, have you?”

“Of course not,” Thorin snapped. “I would never — I wouldn’t —” He stopped himself and took a deep breath. He felt like he was losing Bilbo all over again. He had to remind himself that he wasn’t, and that Bolger could possibly help. “I only… I told him how worried I was, and he said he’d stay in. He seemed fine for the first few days, but then I caught him digging through our things from our journey one afternoon. I thought maybe he meant to work on his book, but he hasn’t touched it, and I feel like he’s barely spoken to me since. He isn’t interested in cooking, or taking care of the flowers I bring him, or having company over to Bag End… I just…”

Thorin fell silent. He could feel the elderly hobbit’s eyes on him as he finished winding the handle of the whisk.

“Well,” Bolger said after a minute or two, “you may have married a Baggins in name, but that lad is half a Took, and that lot has never been very good at sitting still.”

Thorin nodded without looking up. He’d heard plenty such whispers about adventurous Tooks and what a waste of a Baggins it was and how only the son of the notorious Belladonna Took could have married a dwarf, of all creatures.

“You know what to do then, don’t you?”

“If I knew, I’d be doing it,” Thorin growled, chucking the finished whisk into a crate with the rest of Azalea’s order. He slumped at the table with his head in his hands.

“None of that now,” Bolger scolded, rapping Thorin soundly across the shoulders with his walking stick. Thorin surged to his feet in indignation, but Bolger plowed on with the self-assurance only extreme age could bestow. “You don’t know what to do, lad, then you ask one of us who does.”

Bolger just stared at him expectantly until Thorin sighed and sat. “What do you suggest I do, Master Bolger?” he asked in his most placating tone.

The hobbit nodded approvingly and replaced his walking stick against the table. “You say Bilbo’s depressed? Well, what would make that better, in your estimation?”

“The return of the sun,” Thorin answered at once. “He needs fresh air, adventure, and a bit of sunshine to banish this foul cloud he’s under.”

“There you have it,” Bolger declared, nodding again. “He needs fresh air, you give it to him. Adventure? Sunshine? You bring them to him if he can’t go out and get them for himself. Or leastways, do what you can. It’s the effort that matters in a marriage, more than the outcome, if you catch my meaning.”

“And just how do you propose I bring him the sun?” Thorin demanded, exasperated with the hobbit’s non-advice. It’s broken? Unbreak it, of course. Nothing was that simple.

Bolger bristled at his tone. “Well, lad, for starters, you might try being at home. Your husband’s hurting because he’s stuck there? What in the name of the Green Lady are you doing out here yourself? You head down to the market this very instant, and then you come up with an adventure for that Tookish husband of yours, and then you head straight home to deliver it.”

“But what —”

Bolger brandished his walking stick at him. “A meal’s always a safe place to start, but the rest is for you to figure out, isn’t it? You married him, lad, not me. Now, get going.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Everything was ready up underneath the old oak tree.

That had been the easy part, especially with the Gamgees’ wheelbarrow to haul the heavier items up the back side of the hill, where there were fewer windows. Thorin and his small army of volunteers had gotten soaked to the bone, but everything up there was perfect.

Which was more than he could say for his mess of a dessert.

Lemon. Meringue. Pie.

What had he been thinking?

Thorin was no baker. He was barely a functional cook, truth be told, but Pansy Boffin had convinced him he’d have beginners’ luck on his side. Maisy Brownlock had sworn her grandmother’s recipe was completely foolproof. Old Ben Bracegirdle had insisted his lemons could work magic. And Nella Sandyman had promised that her father’s flour was of such fine quality that it could make up for any deficiencies in the rest of the recipe.

It seemed that not even a downpour could stop a hobbit from venturing out when there was romance to be done. Thorin had merely asked Pansy for some advice on what to cook, and suddenly, what seemed to be every resident of Hobbiton had been there with a tip or a recipe or a secret ingredient for Thorin to try. They’d donated time and supplies and plenty of advice, and just like that, Thorin had had everything he could possibly have needed for this endeavor.

Several times over.

Now, though, staring down his last chance at an edible pie, Thorin had half a mind to chuck the whole lot out the window and pretend he’d never hatched such a mad scheme.

Thunder rumbled outside, and a great gust of wind drove the rain against the windowpanes. Thorin thought of all those hobbits down at the market, bundled in their cloaks against the weather. They were bound and determined to socialize, and Bilbo should have been out there too. As much as his own instincts screamed at him to delve beneath the earth in search of wonder and security, Bilbo’s called for fresh air and sun and companionship.

“Sunshine on a plate,” Maisy had declared of her grandmother’s lemon meringue pie.

Thorin’s last version, with its yolk-streaked, over-baked meringue, looked more like a tin full of mud, but Thorin pushed up his sleeves. For Bilbo, he could try one more time.

Before he could agonize a minute more, he dumped the beaten egg whites over top of the custard, swirled the peaks into a quick geometric design, and shoved the whole thing into the oven. He made certain he set the sand timer this time, and he went to work clearing away the mess.

Thorin piled all the burnt crusts into the bowl with his sticky first batch of dough and hauled them out the kitchen door to the compost heap, trying not to track through too much mud along the way. A second trip took care of the failed custards and the used lemon rinds. Then he scraped three batches of flat meringue out onto the top of the that last, burnt pie and carried it out too. He ran a sink full of water for the dishes and then set himself to the task of making the rest of their dinner.

He’d planned on doing roasted potatoes, pan-fried steaks, candied carrots, soft rolls, and Bilbo’s favorite buttered mushrooms. Simple fare, but filling. Judging by the angle of the weak sunlight limping in through the kitchen window, however, he was fairly certain none of that would atually be happening anymore: Bilbo was sure to be up soon.

And that was beside the fact that he had used up the last of his flour on that final pie crust, and that he was essentially out of dishes at this point. In fact, his last three attempts at the pie had been done up in frying pans after he’d discovered just how long it took to scrape and scrub the burnt bits of crust out of the pie tins.

So it was time for a new plan, one that would play more to his strengths. He had no faith at all in the pie in the oven, so he desperately needed dinner to turn out properly. He flipped through the stack of recipes and notes and lists on the table. Then he looked to his heap of unused ingredients. Then back to the notes again.

No help there. Not for the time and resources he had available, anyway.

He had to think even more simply.

Meat, potatoes, and there was a miniature spice garden in the window box above the sink. He had a fire going up on top of the hill, and camp stew was one of the few things he could make fairly reliably. He’d seen Bombur make it a thousand times on the road to Erebor, and he’d helped Bilbo make it a thousand times more on the way back again. There was nothing to it, and actually, he reflected, it would fit in quite nicely with the rest of his surprise, that “adventure” he’d created for his Tookish husband.

He hefted the big stew pot onto the flour-dusted table and began throwing ingredients inside, just as fast as he could chop them, pausing only to remove the pie from the oven. All his would-be dinner ingredients went in, along with an onion, what little salt was left in the bowl on the table, and a sprig of something spiky from the window box. It smelled familiar, though he could not have named the plant for all the gold in Erebor. He covered it all with water, and then, on a whim, threw in a splash of ale for good measure.

It would have to be good enough. He hauled the heavy pot outside and up the hill.

Thorin returned, dripping, to the kitchen in time to hear sleepy shuffling noises from the direction of the bedroom. A particularly loud thump had him racing to the hall closet for their old packs. He threw utensils, bowls, and everything else he’d need into them. He was just closing the flap on his own pack when Bilbo’s voice cut in from the doorway.

“Going somewhere?”

Thorin froze.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing Bilbo noticed upon waking from his nap was that the smial smelled funny.

There was something tangy, laced through with the sharp bite of burnt sugar and rosemary. It wasn’t terrible, but it was strange, given he hadn’t been in the kitchen since making tea before his nap. He amused himself for a minute or two, imagining what sorts of dishes he might possibly cook in his sleep, before a crash and a low, rumbling curse revealed the true culprit: his husband had been cooking again.

He fumbled for his ring on the nightstand, intending to get a sneak peek of Thorin in the kitchen, focused and unguarded. Bilbo smiled fondly to himself at the mess he was sure to be making. Thorin couldn’t cook to save his life, but it always gave Bilbo a little thrill of contentment to see him try. Braids swinging as he double- and triple-checked his recipe. Tough, scarred hands coated in flour, rolling soft dough as though it were something precious. Sword skills turned to chopping vegetables _just so._

Bilbo’s fingers met nothing but empty space. His ring wasn’t there.

He sat up, sure he had just missed it, but there was nothing on the nightstand except his empty teacup and saucer, sitting next to the book he had been reading before he fell asleep.

Bilbo clutched at his chest, sending his top button skittering across the floor. He wasn’t wearing the ring on its chain around his neck. He remembered taking it off before lying down.

He leaned over the edge of the bed to search the floor below, but found nothing.

The ring was gone.

He lurched out of bed on stiff legs and patted down his trouser pockets.

He tore the bedding off his mattress.

He emptied the drawers of the nightstand.

The ring was gone.

No.

There it was, safely on its chain after all, lying by the back corner of the nightstand, where it must have fallen when Bilbo put down his book.

Bilbo sank down to the floor, just basking in the bubble of relief while he caught his breath, until the sound of the front door roused him once more. He threw on his dressing gown and tucked the ring securely into his pocket. Surely Thorin wasn’t leaving?

Out in the hall, the smell of burnt sugar was stronger. The hall closet door was ajar, and his mother’s wooden chest was open, and there were muddy boot prints absolutely everywhere.

Their packs were missing from their place in the closet, as were with the oilskin cloaks that normally hung on the pegs near the front door. The chest had been emptied of blankets, and the door to the pantry was wide open.

It looked as though Thorin was moving out.

Bilbo staggered down the hall on rubbery legs, toward the sound of Thorin rattling things around in the kitchen. Sure enough, he was standing in the kitchen, dripping wet, loading a pack with supplies for a journey. Waybread and dried apricots and waterskins.

“Going somewhere?” Bilbo tried to sound casual, even if the guilty way Thorin froze broke his heart.

His husband was leaving him.

There was a second pack lying on the table, already full to bursting, and there was a pile of cloaks and sweaters still on the table, waiting to be loaded up.

Bilbo knew he hadn’t been the best husband lately. He hadn’t been very attentive. He’d been too mired in his own dark thoughts of uselessness and unworthiness to even pretend to be cheered by all Thorin’s little gestures, but he could see it now. He should have taken better care of all those little pots of flowers. Should have made that cobbler Thorin favored out of his blackberries. Should have taken him up on his offer to fetch Drogo and Prim and darling little Frodo for a visit. He should have done a million things, and the panic clear on Thorin’s face made every single one of them burn bright and clear in Bilbo’s mind. He’d done so much, tried so hard, and Bilbo had ignored it all…

Thorin cleared his throat and side stepped to block Bilbo’s view of the kitchen, which, his panic-addled brain noted dimly, was an absolute wreck. That would account for the burnt sugar and rosemary smell clogging the halls. A hysterical giggle bubbled up at the image of Thorin making rosemary-flavored sweets for his journey, but Bilbo swallowed it back ruthlessly. He would be strong, whatever Thorin’s intentions.

“Well—” Thorin cleared his throat again, clearly not prepared to speak to Bilbo like this. Had he meant to slink away in the storm like a stray cat? Did Bilbo really mean so little to him now? Was he just done with him altogether?

But then Thorin bowed with an elaborate, courtly flourish that reminded Bilbo of Fili. “That is, would you accompany me on a small adventure, Master Baggins?”

Bilbo was so shocked he dropped the ring. He hadn’t even realized he still had it in his hand. “What?”

Thorin looked so lost, so uncertain, that it was a reality check for Bilbo. People didn’t invite their spouses along when they were leaving them. He’d either heard him wrong, or he wasn’t giving up.

“I— I have a surprise for you, Bilbo.” He wasn’t leaving. “If you’re feeling up to it.”

Bilbo felt so light he was liable to float away. Thorin hadn’t given up on him. There was still time. Time to fix things. Time to show he hadn’t given up either. He felt like he’d just woken from some terrible nightmare. “Of course! I mean, I should be delighted, Master Oakenshield,” he corrected himself to match Thorin’s manner. Bilbo sketched a jittery bow that made his husband chuckle.

Thorin passed him a sweater from the stack on the table. “Bundle up, Ghivashel,” he rumbled. He pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s forehead, and he knew, whatever surprise his husband had in store, they would be fine.

He really hadn’t given up on him yet.


	4. Chapter 4

There was a tent on top of the Hill.

Miles of oiled canvas in every color stretched from the crook of the old oak tree to stakes anchored in the muddy sod, and thin tendrils of smoke curled out of an opening near the trunk.

“Thorin,” Bilbo breathed. “What have you done?”

His husband merely smiled that soft, secret smile of his, and led the way around the side of the tent. The whole eastern side was open, overlooking the hills beyond Hobbiton, but inside - Bilbo had to stop and take a breath - inside was a garden.

There was no other way to describe it. Flowers filled every inch of the space, save for a narrow path that led deeper into the sprawling tent. Flowers hung in buckets from the tree branches that supported the ceiling. They stacked in crates against the walls, and pot after pot covered the floor.

Thorin led the way to the cozy little campfire at the base of the tree, where a cookpot was already bubbling merrily over the low flames. He leaned his pack against the tree trunk and relieved Bilbo of his own, while he stood gaping at the riot of color all around him. Bright yellow daisies and fluffy, pink peonies, and the Proudfoot family’s prize-winning cardinal lilies. Lacy ferns and low pallets of dense, star-spangled moss. Wild violets and cheery, yellow roses. Spiky, purple liatris and cascades of tiny, white lily-of-the-valley. Rainbows of phlox and foxglove. Thick mats of stonecrop and creeping thyme. There was even, on one side of the path, one of Tansy Bolger’s famed miniature wisteria trees, branches bowed under a profusion of pale purple blooms.

“Say something, Ghivashel,” Thorin rumbled. “What are you thinking?”

Bilbo spun with a grin to see he had already begun to unpack their bags to form a makeshift campsite around the fire. More canvas was laid out before the fire, with thick blankets on top. “Thorin,” he breathed, “it’s beautiful! How on earth did you manage to do all this?”

Thorin laughed a little and shrugged. “It was brought to my attention that if you could not go out to find an adventure, I could bring one to you instead. And when I asked one of the hobbits in the market for a little advice on what sorts of flowers you might like, I discovered that you have a great many friends and acquaintances interested in cheering you up.”

Bilbo turned another slow circle. “But these flowers! Thorin, Tansy Bolger never lets her wisteria out of her sight. And the Proudfoots have been guarding their lily seeds for generations… And for those ferns to withstand transport…”

“Hobbits are hopeless romantics,” Thorin rumbled, suddenly right behind him, wrapping his arms around Bilbo’s chest. “I told them how, in Erebor, I might have brought you gems filled with the sunrise, but I thought flowers and good food suited you better, if only they could advise me in the matter.”

Bilbo squirmed around to face his husband. “Forget-me-nots,” he mumbled, burying his face in the fur lining of Thorin’s coat.

Thorin pulled back. “What?”

“The flowers I might like.” He ducked out of Thorin’s embrace and picked up a little basket of blue flowers. “Forget-me-nots.”

“They’re very pretty.”

“They remind me of your eyes,” Bilbo said shyly, stroking a finger along the tiny petals.

“I’m partial to this one,” Thorin offered, trailing his fingertips through the soft, grey-green spikes of a lavender plant. He took a deep breath and sighed. “It brings to mind the soap you used in Rivendell to get rid of the stench of troll.”

Bilbo laughed. “I thought you didn’t care for all that ‘frilly Elvish nonsense.’”

Thorin shrugged. “It doesn’t seem like nonsense when it’s you, I suppose. It suits you.”

Thorin pulled him in for another hug, but was interrupted when Bilbo’s stomach gave a noisy grumble. Thorin laughed and kissed him on the nose. “There’s food too. It should be nearly ready. Come.” And he guided him to the fireside, where a heavenly smell was coming from the pot.


	5. Chapter 5

The stew was better than he’d hoped, even if he’d forgotten to thicken it.

Bilbo assured him it was most certainly _not_ worth venturing back down to the kitchen for flour, and he heaped more blankets on Thorin's lap to prove it. Instead, they crushed bits of cram into the bottom of their bowls and ladled the hot broth over top. They ate and watched the shadows lengthen across the hills outside as the sun peeked out between the clouds and the horizon, talking of this and that and nothing in particular, and Thorin kept up the fire, and Bilbo made them quite the little nest of blankets before it, and all the world felt right again, but for the nervous fluttering in Thorin’s stomach.

It was when Bilbo made to fix himself a fourth helping of stew, that Thorin finally got up the courage to unveil his pie. Seeing it there, in the middle of the splendor of flowers he’d arranged, eased something in Thorin. He took a moment to simply appreciate the finished product. The grooves and angles he’d carved into the meringue had turned a beautiful shade of gold in the oven, and a handful of brilliant red flowers, added on a whim at the last possible moment, studded the design like rubies. It was a thing of beauty, if Thorin did say so himself.

“Thorin, it’s marvelous!” Bilbo took the pie and inhaled deeply. “Wherever did you learn to make lemon meringue?” He peered up at Thorin shrewdly, as though suspecting a trick. “The stew, I’ll grant you, but even Bombur never baked up sweets this splendid…”

“More well-wishers,” Thorin answered simply, cutting his husband a slice and passing it over. He cut a slice for himself.

“It smells divine,” Bilbo said, turning his plate this way and that to admire the bright yellow filling and the tall puff of airy meringue. ‘Sunshine on a plate,’ indeed, Thorin reflected, though the grin on Bilbo’s face outshone even the brilliance of the pie.

Bilbo took an excited bite. His eyes went wide.

And he swallowed hard.

“Well, Ghivashel?”

“It’s lovely,” Bilbo assured him. “Your meringue is perfectly fluffy.” He took another little bite, chewing slowly and thoughtfully. “And your crust is perfectly done, Love.”

Thorin smiled and scooped up a bite of his own. “I’m glad. I worried it might —”

He spat the pie back out on his plate and stared at the offending glob in utter shock.

“Oh, Thorin!” Bilbo exclaimed, setting his plate aside to put a hand on Thorin’s knee. “I’m so sorry, Love, but —” he choked a little. “I think —” Bilbo closed his eyes. “I think you managed to switch the sugar with salt in the filling.”

Thorin surged to his feet with a curse. After everything, after all his hard work! He’d gotten the crust right. He’d beaten that meringue into submission. But then! Then! To put salt in the filling!

He turned to apologize to Bilbo, only to find him clutching at his face as tears streamed down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo gasped out.

Thorin knelt to comfort his husband, only to discover he was shaking with repressed giggles.

“It’s not funny,” Bilbo managed.

“It’s not,” Thorin agreed, staring at Bilbo incredulously as the hobbit fought to get himself under control. “Ben Bracegirdle taught me how to zest lemons,” he said softly after a minute. He mimed the action feebly, feeling completely at a loss. “And Pansy Boffin showed me how to get the yellow bit out of an egg intact. And I burned four crusts trying to get the oven temperature right. Maisy Brownlock said it should be just shy of burning my hand on a ten-count, but my hands are tougher than any hobbit’s, so I kept running too hot…” He held up his hands as some sort of proof of his hard work. As if he could guilt the pie into sweetness with his rambling.

“Oh, Thorin!” Bilbo panted, trying and failing to master himself. “I’m so sorry!” He tugged the hem of his coat to make him sit again. “You’ve done beautifully, Love.” More giggles. “You really have. And anyway,” he swallowed hard on another fit of giggles, “it wouldn’t be a real adventure if everything went according to plan, now, would it?”

Thorin chuckled a little at that and pulled Bilbo against his side with an arm over his shoulders. “Better salt than you getting yourself captured by trolls again, I suppose…”

Bilbo poked him in the ribs, making him grunt. “I seem to remember _someone_ telling an angry, fire-breathing dragon he was fat,” he said in breathless indignation.

“Parasites,” Thorin mumbled a little sleepily.

Bilbo yawned and snuggled tighter against Thorin’s side. “Setting fire to a stand of trees — after we had climbed them.”

Thorin snorted. “That one was Gandalf’s idea. We couldn’t very well hold onto the pinecones after he’d lit them.”

“True,” Bilbo admitted. He sat up to peer around the tent suddenly.

“What is it, Ghivashel?”

“Nothing.” Bilbo settled back down again. “Just making sure you haven’t hidden that blasted wizard behind a pot of petunias.”

“That was my backup plan,” Thorin teased, “in case my cooking didn’t snap you out of your mood.” He hugged Bilbo to his chest when he seemed likely to sit up again. “Peace, Ghivashel,” he murmured, kissing his husband’s hair. “It’s just us.”

“Perfect,” Bilbo sighed.

They were quiet for a while, just listening to the gentle tapping of rain on the canvas above them, and the crackling of the campfire before them. Bilbo plucked a flower from the meringue and studied it a little absently.

Against his side, Thorin could feel Bilbo’s cheek curve up with his faint smile. “I’ll see about making a fresh pie in the morning,” he rumbled, half to himself. “Salt for sugar…” He trailed off, cursing halfheartedly in Khuzdul.

“I don’t know, Love,” Bilbo mumbled back, nuzzling into Thorin’s chest and twirling the little red flower between his fingers. “This one is growing on me.”


End file.
